Long Lost Hope
by gracewright
Summary: Spencer Reid has lived a life of captivity. Can Morgan and the team raise him from the dark and give him back his long lost hope? AU where Reid is not part of the original team. Spencer whump, Reid and Morgan bromance.
1. Ch1 Pictures and Prostitutes

**Hello lovelies! I'm back from hiatus at least for this story . . . Make sure to comment and tell me whether or not to continue it!**

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 _ **Morgan POV:**_

I'm sitting in a black SUV that's parked a little ways off from this rundown warehouse. At first glance it looks like nothing special, but after having studied it for several hours I can officially report that something illegal happens here. Of course I could've already told you that since I AM a federal agent from the BAU who's here investigating a prostitution ring. We don't really know much about them, so this is just an information gathering visit. I was told to sit my ass in this car, stay here until further notice and take surveillance photos till I run out of film. So yeah, pretty obvious that something illegal is going on. It's nearing 4:00am when I see movement. I raise my camera and peer through the zoom lens . . . and pause.

Stumbling through the lot to the front door is a young man who couldn't be more than 17. Even though he's hunching, I can tell he'd be over six feet standing straight, and he's so skinny he appears anorexic. His skin is a milky white, so pale it's ghostly, and his brown hair is long and curly falling just past his collar bone. My guess would be that he's a hooker based on his clothing and general appearance. He is wearing tight black pants that hug his frame and sit low enough on his hips that V-lines are clearly visible, with a sleeveless silver crop top that is short enough to show a barcode tattoo that is roughly the size of a pack of cigarettes on his ribs. By now he has reached the door and gained entrance past the man posted inside. I snap a few photos as he goes inside, capturing his face as he turns to look back. Taking out my phone I quickly enter a number and hit send.

It rings once before a bubbly singsong voice answers. "Why hello there Chocolate Thunder! What is it that you require from the goddess of technology?"

I grin and shake my head, "Hey Garcia, I'm sending you a photo for identification. I'm pretty sure he's a prostitute, so there's probably an arrest record."

The sound of typing comes through the phone. "Well my dear, you would be wrong. Not only is there no arrest record, but he's not popping up in any records. I'll try a few things and hit you back. Goddess out!"

I slide my phone back inside its pocket and resume taking photos of anyone around the building. About an hour later it begins ringing, snapping me out of my trance. "Morgan," I answer.

"Hello again handsome!" Garcia's voice slides through the phone line. "I call bearing results. So when the records search came up empty, I went out on a limb and created a de-aged version of our prostitute which I then ran through all national databases. Your boy is one Spencer Reid: abducted at the age of 4 from his home in Las Vegas, Nevada. He completely disappeared from the face of the earth until today. Derek, I believe you just solved a 15 year old cold case!"

"Garcia, I need you to call Hotch and let him know that we're not dealing with an average prostitution ring out of Mexico or Russia, okay? Tell him that they've taken American citizens too."

"Consider it done! Call if you need anything." She hangs up and I once more pocket the phone.

 _ **Reid POV:**_

The hallway swims as I'm pulled by my arm further into the dimly lit building, my Chuck Taylors scuffing against the floor. A fresh dose of the dilaudid they give us is pumping through my veins and making everything blurry and slow. It's a tactic they use to keep us submissive; dose us up and we can't or won't fight them. The guard's fingers dig deeper into my thin arm and I yelp as I feel them leave indentations in my skin that will soon become black bruises.

We reach a padlocked door labeled C-27 and the guard withdraws a key ring from his front pocket. Selecting one, he inserts it in the lock and turns until a loud clang sounds. The lock slides off and he pushes the door open, shoving me through the opening and slamming it closed behind me. I hear the lock being replaced, and then his footsteps walking away, leaving me in my 10ft by 10ft cell.

The gray walls are bare except for a set of manacles attached to the wall by a five foot chain, a mattress and a light blue blanket are placed just beneath where the chain is screwed to the wall. The only other things in the room are a bucket placed in a corner for use as a toilet, and a single flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. With a heavy sigh, I stagger to the mattress and collapse there waiting for the greatest part of the high to pass.

I'm sure I've been here for a while, but at some point I just gave up trying to remember how long it's been and accepted the fact that no one is coming for me. . . that I'll always be here. I close my eyes and ignore the stab of hunger that jolts my stomach. We get fed once a day, but I didn't get my meal yesterday as punishment for not making enough money when they sent me out for driving johns. Normally the men that run this organization advertise on illegal websites, find potential clients, run background checks on them, then have them come here where they pick someone they want, buy them for a few hours, and then leave. Occasionally however, they choose some of their prostitutes that have been here the longest and have them work the streets a couple nights a month. There's no worry about us running away though, because as long as we have the barcode tattoo, they'll be able to find us.

After about an hour of just lying still, the feeling of floating passes and I slowly come down from my high. It takes another hour for me to become fully sober, but I've been taking the drug for so long that the withdrawal symptoms start almost immediately, cramps seizing my abdomen and back with vicious force. Several rounds of cramping later, my door swings open and the guard from earlier enters, a needle filled with dilauded in his hand. He grabs my arm, wraps a strip of rubber around my upper arm and pushes the liquid into my veins. The effect is almost instantaneous; my muscles loosen and my lids grow heavy. The guard watches me collapse against the mattress, then he stands up, his mouth twisting into a smirk as he prods me with the toe of his boot before exiting. I watch him leave, my mouth going slack, and tears rolling from the corners of my eyes.

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 **Alrighty, that's the first chapter guys. Let me know what you think: good, bad, or garbage? Please 'Reid' and review!**


	2. Ch2 Search For Spencer

**Second chapter everyone! Thanks so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows!**

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 _ **Morgan POV**_

I walk into the bull pen at the BAU, having just driven back to Quantico after I got a call from Hotch telling me to get back ASAP. Stepping into the conference room, I see everyone already seated at the round table and everything we know about the case so far up on the board.

"Take a seat Morgan. We need to reevaluate what we know about this case." Hotch levels me with his signature glare and I immediately settle myself in between JJ and Rossi. "Knowing that they've taken U.S. citizens changes our profile of this organization. Not only that, but they have at least one male prostitute which we didn't expect."

Prentiss jumps in, her fingers tapping a rhythm against the table as she talks. "We profiled that they were taking women from Russia, China, and North Korea, and selling them to traders in America. We thought they were doing that in order to keep a lower profile and remain undetected in the states."

"Are they selling the American product in the other countries?" Rossi questions, peering at the information on the board.

"We're ignoring an important piece of the puzzle." JJ's face shifts as she scrunches her brow. "They've always taken older teens and adults. What happened that made them take a four year old Spencer Reid?"

I nod my head in agreement and mirror her puzzled expression. "It _was_ fifteen years ago. . . Maybe it was a practice run? Or maybe they started with taking children and then they evolved into taking adults."

Hotch stands up and adjusts his suit. "Either way, let's start fresh on this with our new knowledge. I'm going to go update the police chief. Morgan, I want you to work with Garcia to find out more about Spencer Reid. Prentiss and Rossi, you both go over the files and match up any overlapping information. JJ, you need to start going through missing persons from fifteen years ago. Let's get to work."

I stand from the table and follow Garcia to her lair. "Looks like you're my bitch, Chocolate Thunder!" Her sparkly red lips part in a smarmy grin as she plonks down in her brightly decorated swivel chair.

"That's my favorite thing to be Baby Girl," I respond with a smile. Pulling up a second less heavily decorated swivel chair, I sit next to her and lean forward on my knees. "Work your magic Mamma."

She cracks her knuckles and begins typing at lightning speed, her black manicure moving across the keyboard rapidly. "Okay, tell me what I'm looking for."

"Well, we need to know if there are any reports of someone matching Spencer's description on file for solicitation. While you're doing that, access any security cameras in a 20 mile radius of their warehouse and start running facial recognition against the photo I took earlier."

"Consider it done and 'doner'." Penelope continues typing as boxes pop up on the numerous screens throughout the room. Spencer's face, green facial mapping dots adorning it, graces the screens next to footage from thousands of security cameras being searched. "I'm starting to dig into Spencer's life; do you want any info from before he was taken?" She questions, glancing at me over her glasses.

"Yeah, we need to figure out not only what happened to him after he was taken, but what made him a target in the first place." She nods her head to let me know that she heard me, before turning all of her attention to the computers in front of her. I watch her type for a few minutes, then lean back in my chair and focus on the facial recognition search zooming across all but one of the screens.

 _ **Reid POV**_

I wake to the sound of my door being pushed open. My vision swims as I groggily force myself upright on my mattress, the blanket wrapped around my barely covered torso to block the cold air. A guard comes in, automatic rifle in one hand and a plate of rice mush in the other. This is a guard I recognize from previous visits, one of the nicer ones if I remember correctly. What was his name again? Marcus? No. . . It started with an 'M' though. Matteo? Yeah, that's it.

"Food time." His voice startles me out of my thoughts as he places the paper plate on the ground in front of me.

I just nod. I gave up talking years ago when I realized that no one gave a shit what I had to say. Quite frankly I can't remember the last time I used my voice, simply that it was very long ago. Crouching farther forward on the mattress, I hastily scoop the mush up with my fingers, my long unkempt fingernails scraping against the paper. Mateo moves back so he's standing between me and the open door, his hands wrapped firmly around the black metal of his gun. I feel like rolling my eyes but refrain from lack of energy. As if I'd try to escape! I may be desperate, but I'm not stupid.

He grabs my plate away right as I finish wiping the last of the food from its surface. He turns to face me once more before he leaves. "Lineup's in a couple minutes. Seven guys, more than usual. Dieter is gonna want to work out sales with all of them. Get ready."

The door closes and I'm once more left on my own, although judging by what he told me it won't be for long. I close my eyes and sigh heavily. Dieter is the boss, at least for their dealings in the U.S. I don't know about in the other countries. He's a mean sonofabitch, not hesitant in the slightest to beat us or hurt us in other more creative ways.

The door opens again less than a minute later, this time admitting two guards. One of them gives me more dilaudid before they both haul me up and zip tie my hands together, leading me out of my cell and down the same hall as before. At the end of the hallway, they open an industrial sliding door and we enter a large bare room: the bidding room. They shove me against the back wall with all the others; there are about 60 of us give or take a few depending on the time. The majority are Chinese, then Korean, Russian, and finally American. The real minority though are men. There are only four of us, and all but myself are well muscled, manly, and Asian.

Several men in suits are milling around the space, Dieter standing in the middle of their group, his normally stormy face split in a wide smile. After a few moments, he claps his hands loudly and motions towards us.

"Let's start the sales, shall we? I have good new product right now, as well as some long time favorites," His steely eyes meet mine as he says the last part, the message to behave myself clear. A shudder crawls through my insides, instilling an ache in the pit of my stomach. The men start at the front of the line, slowly working their way to my spot near the end, their eyes scouring our bodies as though looking for imperfections in a piece of furniture. They pass me, several of them letting their gazes linger on my concave stomach hungrily, drool practically forming on their lips. One by one as they finish, they point out their favorite to Dieter who quickly jots a barcode number into his small green notebook and takes their money, placing it in a lockbox.

A balding older man in a gray suit and a buff forty-something man are standing in a far corner arguing in heated whispers, having not given their choices yet. Dieter calmly walks over and says something softly that I can't hear over the chattering of the other men. Whatever he said though, it seems to calm both of them down, although the buff middle aged one seems happier than the balding man. Dieter writes in his book, then starts handing us off to our buyers for the evening, having guards escort the men and their purchases to private rooms. I clench my fists and work my jaw with anxiety as the room slowly empties.

Finally the forty-something man is the only client left. With a small wave of his hand, Dieter motions one of the guards towards me. I'm led from the wall, stumbling over my feet as the dilaudid messes with my sense of balance. I vaguely register the buff guy smiling at me, lust and dominance rolling off him in waves as he follows me and the guard down a side hall.

A door opens in front of us and I'm suddenly left alone with my buyer. Before I can register the surroundings, he slams me backwards onto a bed, the feel of pillows foreign beneath my head. He straddles my hips, pressing my arms over my head and into the mattress, his lips parting in an yellow grin.

"The moment I saw you standing there, I knew I had to have you. You're mine for three hours. . . I promise that you won't enjoy it," he breathes, pushing down into me.

I feel his hands slide beneath my shirt and I slam my eyes closed, efficiently shutting off my brain. I won't to be beaten by this life. I won't be broken. . . I _refuse_ to be broken.

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 **Once more guys, please 'Reid' and review! The reviews keep me motivated ;) Oh, and I promise I won't get too graphic with any descriptions of 'sexual' stuff since I only rated this T.**


	3. Ch3 A Light at Last

**Thanks for the favorites, follows, and reviews everyone! Third chapter here we go ;)**

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 _ **Morgan POV**_

The minutes tick by in relative silence, the only exception being Garcia's typing and the whirring of the computers. I rock back in my chair, restlessly jostling my knee up and down, then switch positions so that I'm leaning against the desk. I'm about to start pacing to get rid of some of my excess energy when Garcia gets my attention.

"Alright! We have a boatload of info here. I couldn't find it at first cause it was buried under a ton of cyberspace gunk, but never fear, Penelope Garcia was there!"

I smile at her antics then bend forward and tap her shoulder. "Focus Mamma, what did you find?"

"Everything my dear. So, I went all the way back to his childhood and I gotta say, it's not very happy. His mom and dad got married when they were both 25, moved to Las Vegas Nevada for his job, and a year later Mr. Reid just up and left her. It looks like three months after that she gave birth to a Spencer Reid, no father listed on the birth certificate. Mrs. Reid and Spencer sold their house and downsized to a two bedroom one bath house, where Mrs. Reid got a job as a medieval history professor at the local community college. About the time Spencer turned 3, Mrs. Reid was diagnosed with Schizophrenia and nearly went bankrupt paying for her medication." Garcia pauses, taps a few more keys and then inhales sharply. "Oh, St. Peter on a popsicle stick! She took on hooking as a side job to help pay for her meds when Spencer was 4, but get this. . . She used to bring them to the house while Spencer was there. It was the same year that Spencer disappeared. . . Do you think that one of them was involved with the trafficking ring and took him?"

I clench my jaw as I think about the possibilities. If that was indeed where a member of the organization caught sight of him, then there's virtually no way we can figure out who it was. I doubt that Mrs. Reid had a list of names and phone numbers for her 'clients'. "I don't know, but it's definitely possible. Send this information to everyone's cellphones."

She nods and hurriedly sends the files to the rest of the team. Almost as soon as she finishes, the computers that had been running facial identification start beeping, alerting us that a match has been found. Garcia spins in her seat and brings up the identification showing no less than fifteen search results. I reach out and play the first one; it shows Spencer standing on a street corner, swaying drunkenly as a red sedan pulls up with an unidentifiable man inside. Spencer leans down and the man appears to bargain with him although Spencer's lips never move. Finally, the man must have reached a price that Spencer deemed acceptable, because he opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.

Clicking on the next video, it shows about the same thing: Spencer being propositioned, a price being determined, and Spencer leaving with the john. Continuing down the list, they all show the same thing, until there's only one video left. I press play, expecting to see another proposition, but am surprised when the screen instead shows spencer sitting in the rain under the overhang of a church. His knees are pulled to his chest and his hair, which is significantly darker, is hanging in drenched ringlets around his pale face. After 3 minutes of him just sitting there, a white van pulls up and a man in all black steps from the vehicle, grabs Spencer and pushes him into the back of the car before it takes off, giving us a nice view of their license plate.

"Garcia, what was the time stamp on that?"

She presses some keys and a green number flashes in the corner of the screen. "Three months ago, at 4:37 am."

"Can you run that plate number?" I ask excitedly, already grabbing my phone and dialing in Hotch's number.

She's already searching the database as she answers. "Yes, it shall be done at the speed of light!"

Hotch answers on the second ring, his voice serious. "Hotch, I think we got something!"

 _ **Reid POV**_

I hurt . . . everything hurts. After the three hours are over, the guards that come in have to drag me back to my room as I physically lack the strength to get there on my own. My clothes are thrown in after me as soon as the guards drop me onto my mattress once more. God. . . I sluggishly reach down and feel the blood still trickling from where he forced himself on me. The dilaudid has just finished wearing off which unfortunately means that I have no form of pain relief or comfort. I roll over onto my left side and wrap the blanket around my shoulders despite the fact that it irritates the fingernail scratches along my spine, in the small hope of keeping warm.

My clothing is within arm's reach, and I eye it with mild interest before giving up on the idea of getting dressed right now. I think I'd probably pass out before I could get everything on anyway. As I blink, the room gets more and more blurry, the walls swirling together and blending with the ceiling and floor. Just a short rest can't hurt . . . after all, the worst is over for right now. My eyes slide shut and I slowly start sinking into sleep, my breathing getting deeper and deeper.

The door slams open and I jolt upright, my muscles tensed in pain and terror. Dieter paces in, his steps light and rhythmic against the cement floor.

"Well Spencer, you've made me more tonight than I've gotten in a while. Even as a stupid fucking mute, you're worth more than 10 of the others." He pauses in the middle of the room, his cold eyes taking in my bruised torso and my scratched shoulders. "Hmph. Seems like Mr. Cabal did more damage that what I was told." Dieter reaches forward and grips my jaw and turns my head from one side to the other, examining my face. I force my face to remain blank and empty while he scrutinizes me.

He prods at a large purple bruise on my right cheekbone, his lips pursing. "You'll need a couple days to let that heal a little. I can't have my star product looking like an average whore. . . I suppose I'll need to remove Mr. Cabal from our registry, unless I want more of you to have bashed faces." He sniffs disdainfully and releases my face, wiping his hand on a handkerchief that he pulls from his suit pocket. "You stink. I'll tell Mateo to give you a washing; I can't sell trash." With that, he saunters from the room, his guards trailing him.

I exhale heavily, relaxing back against the wall, the icy bite of the concrete now a welcome pain. The door swings open again and Mateo enters, his face carefully neutral as he practically carries me out of the cell and into the large shower room. He sets me down and looks at his hands now slick with my blood. He sighs and scans the hallway before quietly closing the door and hurriedly turning on the hose.

"I can't promise it'll be much better, but it should be more comfortable on your back." He mutters, his deep accented voice holding an unidentifiable emotion. I stare at him in confusion for a second before he turns the sprayer on and begins hosing me down. A startled gasp escapes my mouth as the water that hits my skin is unexpectedly warm instead of freezing cold. "Not a word to anyone, or we'll both get a beating." I nod cautiously, half expecting it to be some kind of a trap: get me to trust him and then sell me out to Dieter. . . Although, I doubt Mateo would tell on me to Dieter anyway, seeing as how there's no love lost between the two of them.

Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I revel in the feeling of warm water gliding over my skin. I reach up and dig my nails into my scalp, tugging dirt and debris loose from the roots of my hair turning the water around my feet a muddy brown. After a few moments, I drag my hands over my face, clearing away the dirt smudges and excess grease. With a quick run of hands over my body, I clean off the majority of the dirt and sweat, only leaving the worst bits that won't come off without soap.

Mateo turns the handle on the faucet and the water slowly ebbs away, eventually cutting off completely. He hands me an old worn blanket that had been heaped in the corner for use as a towel, then recoils the hose. I scrub myself dry, taking special efforts with my shoulder length hair, then place the blanket back where it was for the next unfortunate user. Without saying anything, Mateo grabs my arm and slings it over his shoulders, placing his arm around my waist for support.

When we reach my cell, he places me back on my mattress, before swapping my bloody blanket for a newer one. Leaving me for a moment, he returns and gives me my next dose of dilaudid. I hear the door close, and immediately gather the energy to pull on my clothing; while being naked is one of the main requirements of being here, I don't appreciate the vulnerability that comes with sleeping naked when one of the guards could come in at any moment. Curling up on the mattress, I close my eyes, and successfully manage to fall asleep.

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 **Okay everyone! Let me know if you liked it: 'Reid' and review please! I'll work on getting Spencer free, hopefully in the next chapter ;)**


	4. Ch4 Survivor

**Hey everyone! Thanks for the reviews, favorites, and follows. Sorry that this chapter took so long, but life happened :3 Alright, here we go!**

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 _ **Morgan POV**_

We got a trace on the license plate and found out that it's registered to a Chris Declan. After that, we traced his employment records to a Dieter Bellum, who he works for under the title of 'security'; there were at least twenty other men we found who work for Dieter as 'security'.

"He wouldn't keep them at his home Garcia, so search for other properties owned by Dieter Bellum." I say as I pace around the tiny tech room, my phone in hand to immediately call Hotch when we find a possible location.

"Okay! He's got a vacation home in the Bahamas. . . And a fancy apartment in New York." Her face is tight in concentration, her fingers poised above the keys ready to type.

I frown and shake my head in frustration. "No, neither of those will work! He needs privacy and lots of room. . . Look for something more industrial, maybe a warehouse."

The sound of clicking fills the room, soon interrupted by a startled gasp. "The warehouse you were staking out is in his brother's name!" Garcia's voice grabs my attention and I quickly focus my attention on the computer screens.

"Pull up any security cameras in the area, and go to footage from the night Spencer was taken in the van."

A few minutes later and we're watching as the same white van pulls into an alley behind the warehouse. The driver steps out and drags an unconscious Spencer out of the back, flinging him over his shoulder so the camera never gets a good shot of either of their faces.

"That's it Baby Girl!" I dial Hotch who answers immediately. "We got 'em Hotch!"

 _ **30 Minutes Later**_

I'm sitting in a black SUV outside the warehouse with the rest of the team, bullet proof vests and guns at the ready, and SWAT team in a van behind us.

"SWAT goes in first, clears out any immediate threats, and then we take lead. Understood?" Hotch asks, leveling us with his ever serious glare. We all nod curtly, adjusting our vests and guns. He looks us over then gets out, all of us following him as he cautiously walks to the SWAT van and opens the back door. "Ready when you guys are."

We get behind SWAT, then run low towards the entrance of the building. As soon as we reach the door, two of them take the battering ram and smash it in, the sound of rapid gunfire and shouting following immediately after. We swarm in, shooting anyone with a weapon who's not dressed in FBI gear, downing five guys in the first few minutes.

I motion to several of the SWAT guys, and we break away from the main group, following a side hallway as it disappears around a corner. Along the walls on either side, are doors with padlocks, different letter and number combinations painted on the cement above them. The first two doors are open and completely bare. The third one is locked, and I steady myself before I kick it in, splintering the doorframe. Quickly scanning with my gun, I don't see any more guards, however there's an Asian woman cowering in the far corner, her hair matted and her face smeared with dirt. I lower my weapon and approach her slowly, my hands raised in a peaceful gesture.

"Do you speak English?" I ask, keeping my voice quiet and gentle. She quickly nods her head and shrinks back from me, her feet scraping against the floor. "Hey, hey. . . it's okay. We want to help you get home." I squat in front of her and smile soothingly. "Can you tell me how many of you there are?" She sits quietly for a moment, debating whether or not to answer me or not. Finally she seems to gather her courage enough to respond.

"Fifty-three. . .I-I think," she says, her voice trembling and so soft that I have to strain to hear it. Her forehead wrinkles before she corrects herself. "No, fifty-four. The new one makes fifty-four."

I nod encouragingly and speak to one of the guys behind me. "Get her out of here." He nods and helps her stand, heading back down the hall. "Only fifty-three more."

 _ **Reid POV**_

When I finally open my eyes, the sound of gunshots and screaming are the first things I hear. My head is pounding in response to the withdrawal and as soon as I try to move, nausea curls in my stomach and I hurl onto the mattress. Shivers wrack my body and I pull myself into as tight a ball as possible, while the sound of gunfire grows closer. Something slams into my cell door and I jump, hugging my knees to my chest, a gunshot quickly following before silence reigns.

Without warning my door is smashed open, and men in black military-like uniforms come swarming in, sweeping their guns over my head. I bury my head beneath my arms and start hyperventilating, my breathing becoming more and more ragged as men with guns continue to come through the door. The room falls silent, my heavy breathing the only sound as it echoes off the concrete walls. A warm hand lands on my arm and I shudder, jerking back.

"You're okay, we're not gonna hurt you. Will you look at me?"

His voice is gentle and slightly accented, not at all what I would've expected given the situation. I swallow thickly and move my arm just a little so that I'm peeking out at him. He smiles radiantly and quickly says something to one of the other men, who reacts by immediately leaving the room.

"Now then," he says, turning back to me, "your name is Spencer, right?"

I nod jerkily and move my arms a little further from my face, slowly relaxing as the shock from their violent entrance fades. The pressure of his hand on my arm strengthens when he feels me relax, his weight easing back onto his heels.

"I'm SSA Derek Morgan with the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, but feel free to just call me Derek. We're going to get you out of here, but first I need to know if you're hurt. Can you walk?"

He waits for me to answer, but when all he gets is a hesitant nod his face scrunches in concern.

"Are you able to speak?"

I shakily scrub my hand over my face and shake my head in a definitive "no". Derek schools his face and nods reassuringly, though I notice the smile no longer graces his lips.

"All right, let's get you up."

He stands, then bends down and folds one arm around my torso, while he guides my arm over his shoulders. I pull myself up, trying my best to look somewhat dignified in front of so many strange people and failing terribly when as soon as I stand, I have to lean to the side and dry heave from the withdrawal.

"Whoa! Okay, easy. . ." He takes more of my weight when my knees threaten to give way beneath me. I manage to regain my balance and composure (well, more or less), tapping his shoulder when I'm ready to start moving.

We slowly make our way from my cell, the floor freezing and gritty underneath my feet. My eyes flicker around the hallway, taking in the blood spray painting the walls and the dead bodies of the guards in heaps on the ground. I grit my teeth in pain and determination, both fear and relief flooding my system at the prospect of finally getting out of here. The last time I was out in the world freely, I was very young, so long ago that I don't even remember how old I was.

The closer we get to the main doorway, the more agents I see milling around, snapping photos and checking for pulses. Someone laughs and I startle so abruptly that Agent Derek nearly loses his grip on me.

"What is it? What's wrong?" He asks, his voice taking on an urgent tone, assuming that I must have sensed a threat. I shake my head, telling him that nothing is wrong . . . After all, how can I express how wrong it feels to hear such a happy sound in this place of nightmares. Laughter and smiles don't belong here.

My heart starts pumping faster and faster with each step, freedom waiting on the other side of the door ten feet in front of me. After several more minutes of carefully limping forward, I take my first untracked step outside since I was taken. The flash of rotating red and blue lights blinds me, and it takes me a few seconds of blinking before I can get a good look at the chaos unfolding in front of the warehouse. Black SUVs, police cars, and ambulances are packed together, people I recognize as other prostitutes perched on the backs of the ambulances and being interviewed by police officers.

I feel Agent Derek's arm press harder against my ribs to get my attention. The warm smile is back on his face as he steers me towards one of the ambulances, where two female agents and two male agents are gathered. They see us coming and clear a space for Derek to help me sit on the metal floor of the vehicle.

"You okay kid?" Derek catches my eye and I give him a wan smile, shakily bracing my hands against my knees.

"Morgan," one of the male agents calls, and motions Derek a few steps away, his dark eyes tracking Derek's steps as he walks over to meet him.

I shiver, both from the bite of the chill fall air and from the feeling of eyes on me. I glance over at the group of agents standing next to me and find one of the women staring at me. When our eyes meet, she smiles and sweeps her blond ponytail over her shoulder.

"Hi Spencer, my name is Jennifer Jareau. I'm an agent with the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. . . How are you doing?" She asks, taking a few steps closer.

I look up at her and then shrug. Truth is, I have no clue how I'm doing; I just feel sort of numb. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and allow my fears for the future to grow.

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 **Okay guys! I'm starting my sophomore year of college tomorrow, but I promise that I will try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible! If anyone has any suggestions for where this should go, just tell me: 'Reid' and review!**


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